The Soul Selects Her Own Society
by spark fanfic
Summary: CJ/Toby. "No matter how we breathe, or count our breaths..."


All characters belong to other people

All characters belong to other people. The title's from Emily Dickinson #303; Ann Coulter and Alice Fulton are quoted. Feedback's welcomed.

  
**The Soul Selects Her Own Society**  
**Violet Spark**

spark_fanfic@yahoo.com  
  
  
It was too hot to sleep. It was too hot to be awake. It was certainly too hot to be sensible.   
  
The thin material of her top-sheet was not enough to shield her eyes from the late afternoon sunlight. C.J. raised her arm drowsily, blocking the glare with the crook of her elbow. Discontented, she turned over and nuzzled her face into the pillow, folding her arms childishly over her head. She wanted unconsciousness to find her, and the sun seemed to be chasing it away.   
  
Behind her, Toby sat up slightly to push the sheets away. She was not surprised that he was awake; he never let himself fall asleep before she did. That was an issue of trust, she supposed. She started to try and decide whether it bothered her, but stopped herself, clenching her eyes shut as tightly at possible. Don't think, she ordered herself. Rest.   
  
Twice, they had agreed not to do this anymore. The first time had been after the election and before the inauguration, when it had seemed natural to let campaign sex die with the campaign. That decision had lasted for a year and a half; it had been shot to hell, with everything else, at Rosslyn. The second time was just a few weeks ago, and it was proving considerably less successful. He was in her bed again. She could sense him listening to her breathing, as strongly as she felt the sunlight hitting her back.   
  
She yanked the pillow over her head, wanting to shut her mind off. Rest. Rest. She counted her breaths, slower and slower, and finally slipped away.   
  
  
  
The air-conditioning in the West Wing had failed again that day. There were rumors that it had worked properly once, but most people said that was a myth. C.J. had tried to concentrate on work, but it hadn't happened. She'd given up around lunchtime and wandered down to the mess hall for something cold to drink. Ainsley Hayes had been leaning into the refrigerator, trying to figure out how many cans of Fresca she could smuggle to the steam-pipe trunk distribution venue in one trip.   
  
It must have been the temperature, but C.J. felt suddenly social. "What's got you in here on a Saturday?" she asked sympathetically.   
  
"Oh, I didn't have to come in. I was reading about this lawsuit in Pennsylvania." Ainsley set a can of soda on the counter and produced a file from under her arm. "Planned Parenthood and co-defendants versus Lancaster Life."   
  
"Lancaster Life?" C.J. frowned. "That's the thing about the anti-abortion website?"   
  
"Overturned on appeal." Ainsley opened the folder and scanned a page. "I can't believe it wasn't thrown out of court in the first place."   
  
"You think that stuff was legitimate?"   
  
"Sure," Ainsley said. "It's the First Amendment."   
  
"Not if it's threatening people."   
  
Ainsley shrugged. "They never advocated violence against anyone. It's not their fault that some groups feel uncomfortable with the free speech of pro-life groups."   
  
"Feel uncomfortable?" C.J. repeated incredulously. "Ainsley, this site was essentially an anti-abortion hit list. I can't believe you'd defend those tactics."   
  
"So it's okay to publish photos of graphic sexual acts, but God forbid you speak up if you're Christian or--"   
  
C.J. folded her arms. "Pornography doesn't actively threaten specific people."   
  
"They never advocated violence against anyone."   
  
"Can I see that?" She took the file from Ainsley without waiting for an answer, and skimmed through it. Her voice rose as she read. "Lancaster Life collected and published information pertaining to doctors, nurses, clinic owners, security and law enforcement, pro-choice judges and politicians, and their spouses, friends and children. Personal data including date and place of birth, home and business addresses and phone numbers, Social Security numbers, license plates... photos and videos of their homes and their cars, Ainsley! In what skewed universe is that not a threat?"   
  
"They compiled this data in anticipation of the day Roe v. Wade is overturned and abortion is criminalized." Ainsley gently took the file back. "Absolutely not in the spirit of violence. These people treasure human life, C.J. Their speech is not criminal any more than yours or mine."   
  
"If I was on this list I'd be afraid to stand in front of a window."   
  
"Oh, please. It's more dangerous to be a New York City cab driver than an abortionist. And they certainly have less trouble defending themselves than millions of unborn children."   
  
C.J.'s eyes blazed; she was starting to yell. "You can vote for a Republican President. You can print all the gory photos you want, you can write all the editorials you want. You can work within the system. You can't stalk people who disagree with you!"   
  
"So now we're all fanatics?"   
  
"No, but the ones who pull this crap are!"   
  
Ainsley stepped forward, keeping her voice calm. "The Supreme Court made it illegal for pro-lifers to protest outside abortion clinics. Apparently, if they speak their minds on the Internet, they risk a hundred million dollar lawsuit. What system are they supposed to be working within?"   
  
"The one that gives everyone the right to her own opinion, her own career, and her own choices without being murdered for it!"  
  
Ainsley started to respond, but suddenly discovered she was standing on her tiptoes to meet C.J.'s eye-level. As she rocked back on her heels, C.J. glanced down and realized she'd snatched up the can of Fresca. She was clutching it so tightly that her knuckles had gone white. The women locked eyes for a long moment. Abruptly, C.J. shoved the soda can into Ainsley's hand and stormed up the stairs.   
  
She stalked through the bullpen and into her office, gathering up her papers as quickly as she could. She banged the door shut on her way out, loud enough that it echoed. Later, she would not remember looking for her keys, driving herself home, unlocking the door of her apartment. She found herself sitting on the couch, watching her hands shake, and waiting for the anger to subside. An hour passed, and C.J. did not move until she heard her door slowly opening. She looked up sharply as Toby shuffled in.   
  
"Your door went off one of its hinges," he told her.   
  
She hunched her shoulders slightly and didn't speak.   
  
"That's the second time in six months," Toby continued, watching her carefully. "Three strikes, and I'm going to have to replace it with one of those beaded curtains."   
  
C.J. didn't smile, just stood up and hugged herself.   
  
"So." Toby took a few steps toward her. "Care to talk about the spirit of bipartisanship?"   
  
She fairly lunged at him.   
  
There was no further discussion. Her awareness was narrowed by need, and she stopped harboring anger, stopped feeling anything except his lips against hers and his hands moving under her clothes. She was impatient, stressed and starved and rushing him. For once in their relationship, he offered no argument. And if she spoke at all, it was only to say his name.   
  
He steered her out of the living room; they crashed into her bed. She wasn't sure if she closed her eyes or was blinded. He tasted her skin, gasped for air, could not get enough of either. It was all feet kicking clothes away and fingers digging into hips, shading towards violence in their hurry. They slammed into each other and almost tore each other apart.   
  
She hadn't turned on her air-conditioner, and the bedroom was stifling. The bedclothes were tangled around them, slippery with sweat. It was too hot to cool down easily. It was too hot to sleep, but eventually, C.J. managed.   
  
  
  
When he was sure she had dozed off, Toby climbed carefully out of her bed. He struggled into his shorts and undershirt and tried to make his way quietly out of the bedroom. The effort was ruined when her kitten skittered up and began to weave itself between his feet. He nearly stumbled over the cat in the doorway.   
  
It mewed and hooked its claws into his ankle. He bit back a yelp and glared in its direction. "You're a monster." The kitten looked up at Toby adoringly and rubbed its head on his foot. He sighed and stooped to pick it up. "Okay. Now we're monsters looking for coffee."   
  
He paused to switch on the air-conditioner, and went into the kitchen. Setting the cat down on the counter, he reached for the coffeepot. It was half full. He poured himself some and drank without warming it up, barely flinching at the bitter taste.   
  
Just as he finished the cup, C.J. emerged from the bedroom, her bathrobe tied loosely around her. She tried ineffectively to settle her disarranged hair with her hands. Toby watched her approach and liked the way she was walking, wobbly yet graceful. Like a newborn deer, he thought, and grimaced at himself for even thinking the cliché.   
  
"Get down, Circe," C.J. said, nudging the kitten off the counter. "You turned the air on?"   
  
"Yeah."   
  
"Thank you. What are you doing?"   
  
"Composing a poem."   
  
"What?"   
  
He gestured with the mug. "Cold coffee."   
  
"There's beer." She opened the refrigerator, studied its contents, and made a face. "No, I lied. There's nothing. I have to go shopping tomorrow."   
  
Toby drained his cup. "How old is this stuff?"   
  
"Six this morning."   
  
"Tastes older."   
  
C.J. looked at him oddly. "Yeah, I'm lying to you. It's coffee I picked up on an archaeological dig."   
  
He set it down indifferently. "So tell me about your morning."   
  
"What'd you hear?"   
  
"I heard you leaving. According to Sam, Ainsley said you were like something off one of those vicious animal shows."   
  
"I wasn't." She crossed her arms. "Maybe I was, a little."   
  
"Why?"   
  
"Why'd you come here?" she countered.   
  
"I finished the Ukraine statement earlier than I expected."   
  
"The words just flowed like liquid from a stream, hmm?" she teased.   
  
"Something to that effect."   
  
"I tried so hard to like that woman." C.J. shook her head sadly. "I don't like to think of myself as this partisan person I suppose I am. I don't like to think I can't relate to people on any other terms. I even sang in her stupid office."   
  
"A major gesture," Toby agreed.   
  
"You didn't sing," she remembered. "You sat in her chair and counted her highlighters and made jokes."   
  
"I was there. It counts for something."   
  
"I don't want to be closed-minded, but today I hated Ainsley."   
  
"Nobody actually needs eight yellow highlighters."   
  
C.J. scoffed. "Did you just come here because you've noticed I have an unfortunate habit of jumping you when I'm under particular stress?"   
  
"The tendency has not escaped my notice," he admitted.   
  
"Ah."   
  
He looked at the floor. "I came because I thought you might need me."   
  
She almost smiled. "You're a big bald girl."   
  
His head was still bowed, but he raised his eyes to her. "I was right."   
  
"Shut up. I know."   
  
"So tell me about your morning," he said again.   
  
"Why is it that we can't regulate the temperature in the office?" C.J. leaned down absently and scratched her cat behind the ears. "I'd sell my kidney for central air."   
  
"We should work a tax hike for that into next year's budget."   
  
"Ainsley was reading up on Planned Parenthood v. Lancaster Life," she told him.   
  
Toby nodded slowly. "First Amendment suit, right?"   
  
"The hell it is." She looked at him defiantly. "I'm a Third Wave feminist, Toby. I've never been a suffragette or marched on Washington. But don't think for one second that I take any of my rights for granted."   
  
"So you went off on Ainsley."   
  
She ran a hand through her hair. "You know, nobody bats an eyelash when you scream at people about some church and state issue, or social security. Sam's things are the environment and privacy. God knows we're all allowed to act that way about gun control. This is one of my things, and it always will be. I don't take my rights for granted, and I'm allowed to yell at Ainsley about this if I want."   
  
"You are a partisan person," Toby said. "You wouldn't be any good at this if you weren't."   
  
"No?"   
  
"No. You would also be boring."   
  
"And I'm exhilarating now." She inhaled deeply and let it out slowly. "Why'd you come here?"   
  
"I told you."   
  
"Why'd you come here, Toby? Why do we keep going around in circles?" He shrugged, embarrassed not to have a ready answer. She bit her lip. "We're hypocrites."   
  
"I'm an expert on language," he replied. "'Hypocrites' is not the word."   
  
She studied her hands. "It seems like it, to me."   
  
Toby took a deep breath. "I'd like to keep my distance, my others, keep my rights reserved -- yet look at you, entreasured, where resolutions end. No matter how we breathe or count our breaths, there is no caring less for you for me."   
  
C.J. stared at him, stunned, for a long moment. "You were really composing a poem?"   
  
"I don't." He rubbed his forehead. "Something I read. Alice Fulton."   
  
She chuckled softly. "Does she know us?"   
  
"I was wondering that."   
  
She moved toward him, through the patch of sunlight from the kitchen window. "Resolutions end?"   
  
He held out a hand and she took it. "Eventually."   
  
She tasted the coffee's sourness on his lips, and didn't care. Her left hand held his right; the fingers of his other hand swept her hair aside and lingered on the back of her neck. The cat crept between, around, and under their feet and leapt daringly up to the counter again. C.J. laced her fingers with Toby's, and could hardly believe he was spending so long just kissing her.   
  
This time was slow and searing, and they didn't skip a step. This time, there were no ulterior motives, as they walked hand in hand to her room. This time shattered into tiny, sharp, indelible moments. There was his mouth burning against the inside of her elbow, as it had once in a hotel room in Manhattan. He stroked the underside of her knee; they were drunk together in the back of a bar. Her fingers trailed gently down his chest; it was a car in the middle of Kansas. Her thigh trembled against his cheek -- the parking garage at George Washington Hospital.   
  
They slid inside each other at last, and could barely move. It wasn't necessary. It would have been too much. Gradually, they fell into a rhythm; doing something everyone did, doing the things they'd always done, doing something entirely new. She was above him. He was pinning her arms to the bed. It wasn't the same. It was the same. It hurt. It was so good it hurt. And they shivered and slipped and strained together, letting go of everything except each other, spinning off the edge of the world.   
  
This time shattered them.   
  
  
  
On the horizon, clouds had drifted in front of the setting sun. The light that remained was a muted apricot glow. The air-conditioning hummed from the other room. C.J. breathed in Toby's scent, mixed with her own, and let out a rumbling sigh that was only half contented. Transcendence was temporary. Their lives came flooding back, and she knew clearly that the problems were not going to disappear.   
  
She wanted to protect herself. She reached down and pulled the blankets up, rolled onto her side and curled up with her knees against her chest. There was a stack of magazines under her nightstand. She was lying next to one of her best friends, and she'd learned that he thought about her when he read poetry. She wondered when he'd started reading and remembering poetry.   
  
He was an expert in language. But so was she, at least when it came to polling, to asking the right questions. If she asked herself if she loved him, the answer was clearly yes -- but that wasn't the question. And with Ainsley Hayes, the Ukraine and Josiah Bartlet hanging over their heads, with the White House and its faulty cooling system waiting for them every day, she knew clearly that she could not be in love with him.   
  
Outside, the sky darkened. She turned over to ask Toby to leave, if only to go out and buy some beer. She nudged him gently to get his attention.   
  
He grumbled quietly, in his sleep.   
  
It hit her hard, this silent, possibly unintentional concession. It hit her hard, and she realized just how little choice she had. He was in her bed, and she was already in love with him. There would be no caring less.   
  
Stop it, C.J. told herself, though she couldn't help shifting closer to him, laying her head on his arm. Stop obsessing; stop thinking. Rest.   
  
It was cool enough, by then, to sleep. But it was a long time before she did.   
  



End file.
